


four-letter words

by pheenick



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, kind of, that'll do, this is just soft content hours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24851596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheenick/pseuds/pheenick
Summary: It's simply not for him to know and, Crowley thinks as he feels his own Mark wriggling on his skin, he isn't exactly being forthright either.Or, an epilogue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	four-letter words

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part ofr the [Good AUmens Fest](http://go-events.tumblr.com/).

On the bus, Aziraphale is grey. Drawn into himself and eyes unfocused. One blink every century, responses coming a beat later as if they had to travel up a slope before being said. I’m fine, dear boy. Just tired. Oh, don’t let me fall asleep. He whiles the streets away by reading the ads above them. Doesn’t process the words or clever puns, ust the broad smile of the dentist. 

Crowley is still beside him, more soot than scales. Listing to one side and drained of the adrenaline and grief-stained hope that managed to send him racing down the M25. They rest their hands in each other’s palms more than anything, but it feels better. Fits them more now that they’re both allowed to be a little rumpled.

They make it to Mayfair. Crowley gets up first and Aziraphale follows. Linked together, they are. Where one goes, the other has to as well.

Crowley’s surprised anyway.

“My place—”

“—will do just fine,” Aziraphale finishes, ignoring the wobble in his own lips. He leads them forwards now, not allowing Crowley to slip through. The doors slide open as they enter the building and the posted guard knows better than to look. They walk up the flights of stairs. The ground beneath them is solid and polished concrete, lines of onyx railing holding their warped reflections. It gives them time to think.

Crowley retreats into his office and grabs a mop on his way. Tells Aziraphale to make himself at home. Make a cup of tea, there’s some loose leaf in the cupboards and the coffee machine only spits out hot water now. When Crowley comes back, Aziraphale is reading down the stacks of DVDs in his display rack.

“Find anything you like, Angel?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn’t. “What do we do now, Crowley?” Aziraphale says in a way that’s supposed to be dramatic, but he doesn’t have the energy to bring it all the way. 

Crowley freezes. He doesn’t think they’re talking about their head offices. The End Times. He scrambles to find an answer. To reassure him like he had done on that bench when Aziraphale wasn’t responding to anything but the wine and a soft voice. He’ll figure it out. Make things right again after they pull off this magic trick of theirs. They’ll go right back to normal. Business as usual with a little less business, but nothing more. No more Alpha Centauri, no more big universes—just the Ritz. 

His mouth speaks for him: “We don’t have to do anything. This isn’t so bad, is it? It’s just for tonight. Promise, angel.”

“N—” Aziraphale chokes. Crowley starts to back up on the gas and reel the conversation back to safe ground when Aziraphale holds up a hand. He takes a moment. And then another. Gathers his thoughts together like he’s about to present something to a panel of unimpressed sharks and then all that bravado deflates. What's left is something very honest and very small. Human. Hand on his ring, tight and nearly glowing from the pressure. “No... _no_. That’s not it at all.”

That leaves Crowley floundering, suddenly naked in the dim light. 

They look at each other, diluted blues and yellow eyes as easy to find as any star. It's not a conversation they should have now, exhausted as they are. They both know that. But there are pieces here of a movement that they can latch onto. Take them as a cornerstone to build a new bridge. It would be so easy to live in that halfway state forever. Being allowed the best of both security and affection because of their kindness, selfishness and fear. Crowley had indulged. Held off on accepting the reality of what it truly means to care for someone. That two-way street; the other half of that sentence. 

The weight of being _acknowledged_.

But—

 _I want to spend more time with you_ , he thinks quietly. _That’s all_. Rather impossibly. His grand plan—one miracle that he would gladly snap his fingers a thousand times to do. No matter what happens next, this is where it all starts.

The months pass. They settle into a routine. Something like before, except with tentative steps outside of their comfort zone. He holds the door open for Aziraphale and makes eye contact instead of letting Aziraphale pass by hoping the angel won’t comment on it. Aziraphale asks to hold his hand. A little fuss and pacing beforehand, but he asks and he looks happier for it. They dine, seated on the same side of the table. Passing places between them, fingers brushing.

Countless little things culminating in Crowley’s ultimate plan.

"Done, angel?" Crowley asks, carefully bored. He forces himself to lean back, watching Aziraphale from the settee. The valise is a heavy thing and Aziraphale is gentle as he smooths down the curling edges of his travel stickers. Those large, soft hands of his. Blunt fingers and clipped nails; impeccably maintained. A royal blue polish complimenting his shirt and eyes that sparkle like sea glass in the afternoon light.

They spent an hour folding his clothes together. One by one, pressing them down and running through the creases again to sharpen them. 

“Almost," Aziraphale says with a delighted wiggle and really, that's unfair of him. His angel walks his last lap around the shelves, disappearing around the corners and voice trailing off into soft goodbyes. Reminders to be good and to stay on guard. Don’t let anyone in. No customers, witchfinders or ethereals beings in suits. There's a particularly scandalous stack of books near the secret sigils just for them. Aziraphale makes sure to let them know they're to be as obnoxious as possible.

"Oh, it's going to be so nice, Crowley," Aziraphale sighs, making his way back. He stops just to smile at him. 

Crowley clears his throat of any embarrassment. He shifts, restless. "Sure about that?" he fishes.

"Yes, I just said so," Aziraphale answers, a little offended and Crowley does love to see it. "Surely you're not having cold feet _now_."

"You know our luck with this sort of thing. Figured that was why we decided to quit that nonsense in—what year was it?" 

“We didn’t know Adam, then,” Aziraphale says, chiding him. _Adam_. Always Adam now that they've gotten to know the former Antichrist and his family a little better. Awkward introductions that Aziraphale breezed past with a charming smile and an offer brew tea for them in their own kitchen. Weekends spent sprawled out in the garden having staring contests with Dog. Decidedly not terrible times. "Powers or not, Tadfield still has its perfect weather patterns."

"Book-girl still can't see his aura so I suppose there's logic to that."

"We _could_ trust them, you know. They did all the heavy lifting, in the End."

Crowley really perks up now. He pushes himself into a hunch, arms on his knees and glasses slipping down his nose to see Aziraphale better. Two times now that he's said it. "If I'd have known all we needed to do was show up, I might have taken a nap instead."

"We did a bit more than that, dear." 

_Three_. Three consecutive sentences beginning with _We_. Them. Aziraphale and Crowley. Crowley has to bite his lip and he masks it by pushing his shades back up. Even now, it’s something that surprises him. Excites him. Leaves him wanting to lay down in the sun and just smile.

"Sure," Crowley settles on, non-committal. "And who was it that said we should be grateful that we weren't better at our jobs?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth and then closes it with a disgruntled expression. He picks up his valise and drops it into Crowley's lap. "Best make yourself useful if you're so _keen_."

He walks away with a huff and Crowley's hands curl around the handle, a triumphant grin slithering across his face now that Aziraphale's back is turned.

His angel hums, happily hanging up the sign he made to explain his week-long absence. He sends the bookshop, Crowley and all, one last fond look before stepping out. Solid footfalls echoing out into streets, cutting through the noise of traffic. Aziraphale turns, plastering a smile on his face for the traffic officer, nodding politely before pointing out a car further down the street who is most definitely breaking the law, yes. Right there. That’s the ticket, mind how you go.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale calls over his shoulder, hands behind his back and toes pointed. "Are you going to sit there all day?"

He hefts the valise without wheezing and Aziraphale smiles, clearly impressed. He tosses it into the back seat and walks the long way around. Crowley turns his head while Aziraphale is settling in the front, fingertips brushing against the tattooed snake. He shivers. Warmth blossoms in his chest, flooding down to his feet and curling his toes. A familiar feeling. Often controversial, but never unwelcome.

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asks. The angel already has his hands in the biscuit tin he’s packed for the journey. There’s an emergency stash of penny sweets in the glovebox by the sunglasses and another little handful near the record sleeves Aziraphale always frowns at pettily before ignoring. 

“Yeah. Might as well,” Crowley says, starting to pull out into the streets. At least five people shriek when he suddenly tears through traffic and one of them is Aziraphale who’s angrily brushing crumbs onto his leather seats in retaliation. _A whole week of this_ , he thinks, keeping the performative hissing to a minimum and the smiles hidden. The Bently grumbles, London rapidly vanishing from the side mirror’s view.

· · ·

A vacation.

Though they've generally stayed in each other's orbits for the past six thousand years, _vacations_ were strictly kept out of their Arrangement. Too casual. Too _risky_. It was the occasional lunch or dinner instead. Long walks around the area bringing the other party up to speed about what’s playing in the local theatre. All it took was an accidental bump in the streets and then they were heading in the same direction. Two and two, Aziraphale on Crowley’s right and Crowley on his left. They’d make a day of it. Cap things off with a warm night in the bookshop diving into Aziraphale's collection of vintage bottles. Then Crowley sees himself out in the wee hours of the morning, an angel waving to him from the window in the door.

Staying overnight had never been an option. Desired, perhaps, but unrealistic within the bounds of the lines they've drawn in the sand together. Demon and angel—wouldn’t work out, obviously.

Except it did. It had happened. _Once_. And it will again as soon as Crowley gets a handle on things. Just thinking about the word _vacation_ is enough to cut all connection to his limbs. Leave him limp and useless in the seat as they pull up into the roadway of the cottage home they’re going to be staying in. 

“ _Oh_.” he might have said that out loud. Aziraphale doesn’t notice, already on his feet and drifting forwards. 

A single story building, humble-looking and plain. The paint’s chipping off of the wood that’s dark with age. There’s no one around within screaming distance and it seems like no one’s been here to scream for a very long time. There are no cobwebs underneath the porch or abandoned tools, but plenty of dust...everywhere. On the roof, the bench and all over the windows. It almost looks like someone’s _idea_ of a rustic fixer-upper.

Crowley leans against the Bentley to support himself, legs crossed and tilted at a hopefully appealing angle.

Aziraphale cooes over the flagstone path. The atrocious door plate on mauve wood, the unkempt bushes and little wooden fence around half of the garden. Fluttering here and there like it’s the bookshop back before it officially opened.

It had been the mother’s suggestion. She had smiled and told them about the merits of coming out of London to see what the coast has to offer. A change of pace—Adam mentioned they had gone through something rather _intense_ a few months ago. A little fresh air could do them some good. A week out at her cousin’s old cottage in West Sussex, perhaps? And wouldn’t it be convenient if his godparents were just a little bit closer to home. Her eyes had twinkled and she sipped on her tea. Familiar. It was a passable imitation, but it wasn't her that Crowley was looking at. This was his chance. 

“It’s quite nice,” Aziraphale says, drawing him back to the present. “I do believe there’s a garden in the back.”

Crowley scoffs at that. “Doubt it. Been abandoned for years—the locals have probably forgotten how to feel fear.”

For a moment, Aziraphale looks wretched. "Oh, I thought you would like it. You tend to revel in that sort of blatant disregard for authority."

"When _I'm_ the one sowing it. It's no fun when they come to it on their own." Well, he might as well check it out. Give them the ol’ one-two while he’s here and get a feel for the area.

Thinking about it now, the garden looks exactly like it did during their stay at the Dowlings. Complete with Sister Snail and Brother Slug slowly inching their way across, leaving a shimmery trail on his shoes. He knew that Aziraphale had just let things grow wild back then. Terrible at being a gardener, that one. Made a bid for native biodiversity and pouted enough to convince everyone to agree.

"I suppose you'll be busy for the next little while." Aziraphale wrings his hands, looking at Crowley like one might peer at a loaf of bread in the oven that hasn’t taken any colour. “I’ll get started on dinner, then.”

“Oh,” Crowley says dumbly, feeling a sort of way about that. Then he shakes his head and turns back to the garden as Aziraphale walks away. Misses the way Aziraphale watches him open the latch after a false start, pulling it aside to let him in. The smile that Aziraphale gives him.

Because here’s something far more important: a garden in disrepair. If he works hard, maybe he’ll be able to impress Aziraphale with some freshly blooming sunflowers. It’s ridiculously sappy and sentimental, just like the things Aziraphale likes to surround himself with. The signatures and private notes scrawled on the inside covers, old clothes passed down or gifted. Little treasures of _care_. Things with a little bit more permanence, sticking around long after a lunch has been digested and the curtains have fallen.

Dear _Someone_. Four letters. A constellation hidden by thick black ink lighting up and suddenly demanding attention. His blood is pumping, face blotchy and uneven with a scarlet flush.

Crowley turns his head and of course, _of course_ , Aziraphale is there. Just through the kitchen window and a thick layer of fingerprints. Orange-yellow light spilling down from a single kitchen lamp painting him in a warm glow. It soaks into his hair, dusty blond and cotton candy strands bobbing as he cooks. The barest glimmer of gold in his laugh-lines and crow’s feet. It’s an unflattering angle. Only half of an eye visible and then he turns around, the Y in his suspenders stretching around his shoulders and just the barest suggestion of his rolled up sleeves peeking into frame before disappearing as he moves. Probably chopping something with the precision of a chef who’s been invited into many kitchens, both professional ones and homely nooks in cramped apartments. Taught by masters and home cooks, handwritten recipes tucked into a notebook. He’s moving again, lips parted around an old song that Crowley can no longer hear. Maybe he’s plating now. Taking the time to bring it all together, crafting a cohesive meal for both the stomachs and the eyes. Two of them. Two plates. One for himself and one for—

 _Oh no_ , Crowley thinks, heart stuttering into motion just to highlight his panic. _I’m not going to survive this_.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i do things on my [tumblr](http://pheenick.tumblr.com/).


End file.
